


Till Death Do Us Part

by Madame_Forget_Me_Not



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- Immortality, Angst but nothing too major, Blackmail, Crime Scene, Drug Use, Drug use mention, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, PTSD, There's a plot somewhere, Tickle Fights, some drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1934844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Forget_Me_Not/pseuds/Madame_Forget_Me_Not
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...whereas crime scenes and chemistry labs and mortuaries are Sherlock’s area, people are mine. That’s why we work so well together. Besides, after one spends so long in the company of Sherlock Holmes, one picks up on certain things.” </p><p>	“How long is so long?” Lestrade asked.</p><p>	“Forever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a work of mine that is being put over here as well as on fanfiction.net. Hopefully, I'll be updating these at the same time, but I have no schedule. Please read and review, it's great motivation!

Having an infinite number of days made everyday life seem a lot more boring than knowing any day could be your last. Although many people strived to achieve immortality, there were a few who were actually born with it. No scientific explanation could be found, and by the time there were machines advanced enough to really do any research on it, the subjects who had been around for centuries had lost interest in the answer. They existed, and it was enough.

Sherlock Holmes was one of these few cases. He was born somewhere in the 1200s. He always had a strong intellect, which caused him to question everything. In a time of theocracy, this was something quite negative. When the Inquisition happened, Sherlock was one of the first people to be put on the torture table. When it was found they couldn’t kill him, that he would heal from everything they did, they saw him as a demon and found more painful ways to try and destroy him. At the end of each session they tried, they would lock Sherlock in a cell for the night and leave him with a guard. 

One night, there was a new guard. Sherlock didn’t take much notice, instead turning in on himself to ignore the pain and itching of his quickly-healing skin and organs. However, he was brought out of his reverie by the sound of his cell opening. He opened his eyes and saw the guard locking the door behind him. Sherlock paled as he pictured what humiliations this guard was looking to thrust upon him.   
The guard turned around, and Sherlock was quick to take in the details. He was shorter than Sherlock, though most men at that time were. The guard had deep blue eyes, and he was a soldier that had obviously seen battle rather than just some of the rabble who volunteered to avoid really fighting.

“Fifth or Sixth Crusade?” Sherlock asked. The man looked at him in shock.

“Both. How-”

“Who would volunteer for both? You must be addicted to the thrill, but forced to retire to meager guard work by that limp in your leg. Tell me, were the circumstances traumatic?”

“A sword impaling your left shoulder tends to be,” The soldier nodded.

“And yet it is your leg that is affected. Are you going to claim it is a punishment from your God?” he sneered.

“I don’t have a god,” The soldier said. “And if there is one, I would not follow one who insists men kill other men and children and rape women all for land they both find religious value in.”

This gave Sherlock pause. “Who are you, soldier?”

“John Watson. And who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Master Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please.” Sherlock watched him with wide, distrusting eyes. “Why aren’t you terrified of me? Don’t you think I’m a demon?” He smirked.

John cocked his eyebrow as he took out a knife. Sherlock tensed, but paused when John instead pressed it to his own hand. A deep red line appeared, but as Sherlock watched, it healed. Just like his did when they strapped him to the table.

“You’re like me,” he looked at John questionably. “How long…?”

“I’m about eighty years old, Sherlock. Apparently people like us don’t age. We don’t die because we heal. I suppose we just are,” John explained. Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes.

“You’re like me...Are there more of you?” Sherlock was aware of one person besides himself who was like him, but Mycroft was smart enough to not be discovered. He, on the other hand, couldn’t help questioning how logical things were in their society. That’s what made him part of the Inquisition.

“The only person I know of is my sister, well, and you now.” John sat across from him.

“Then it runs in family groups, like physical traits,” Sherlock nodded. “My brother is like us as well.”

“That’s...that’s interesting,” John smiled. His face became serious gradually. “Sherlock, are you ready to go?”

“You’re getting me out of here?” he questioned.

“I’m certainly not letting you suffer here for eternity,” John looked appalled that anyone would consider him capable of such an atrocity.

“I would have figured a way out long before then,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I don’t doubt you,” John stood and held out a hand. “Coming?”

Sherlock watched him for a moment before gripping his hand and letting John pull him to his feet.

John and Sherlock disappeared, hiding out until the Inquisition faded into the background. During this time, they came to learn who the other was, what made them tick. John was grateful for his extra decades he had to develop patience, because hiding out with a man who became bored during tense situations could be very trying. Sherlock was intrigued with the other man though, and although he came across as rude and inconsiderate, he was taking in every fact he could about his new acquaintance. 

“Why did you save me, John?” Sherlock asked one day as they ate a cooked squirrel around a fire. They were deep in the woods, the moon was full, and the stars were as bright and abundant as ever.

“Because when I caught word of what was happening to you, and I realized what you were, I knew I couldn’t leave someone like me,” John’s mouth twisted as he realized that answer wasn’t the full truth. “Well, and because once I met you, you were...interesting...and you seemed nice enough, and you…. Well, it was the right thing to do!”

“You really mean that,” Sherlock noted. “You really are that good.”

“What of it?”

“Most people aren’t,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Are you trying to say thank you?” John grinned.

“I suppose,” Sherlock tried to hide his smile in response.

“Then you’re welcome!” John chuckled. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

And so life continued for the two immortals. Despite many chances to go their own ways, they decided to stick together. Once the threat was mostly removed and they were able to move around with more stealth, they went back and checked in with Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. He was instantly distrustful of John but had to recognize the favor he had done for his brother. When Sherlock met John’s sister Harriet, it was clear they wouldn’t get on well at all. So rather than go off with their respective siblings, they stuck with each other; they found the other more agreeable than their family members in general. This was how it was for centuries.  
There were years of aliases and traveling and scientific experiments. There were fights and laughter and silence and conversations with just a look and drunken nights of loud bonding. They were close, occasionally checking in with Harriet and Mycroft. But their main concerns were each other. Best friends, family, there were many labels that fit parts of what they were to each other, but at the end of the day, they didn’t need a label. 

It was in the late 1800s that Sherlock followed his interest in crime. He started solving mysteries here and there, wherever they went really. He never gave his real name, as the last thing he needed was to be remembered in history books. That would limit his future endeavors and complicate matters. Besides, it would make John cross.

At that time, John had delved into medicine. Although he had been a soldier for the first century of his life, his passion was in helping people. It was something that endeared him to Sherlock. John had a very dual-natured personality. Both a killer and a healer, personable while also despising the average population, caring and ruthless, patient with a violent temper; he could also be quite clever but also had a tendency to be a bit idiotic or blind when it came to the mysteries Sherlock so adored. He was a brilliant conductor of light.

By the 2010s, Sherlock went by his birth name once again, and John decided to go off and join the Army. He hadn't been active as soldier in some time and he missed the disciplined life style. Although Sherlock wouldn't admit it, he was a bit hurt by the development. But then, John was used to a life of action and their life had been relatively peaceful for the past decade. Sherlock kept his mouth shut while John went off, sent to Afghanistan, and told himself worrying was ridiculous. He was going to be fine. He always was, after all.

Sherlock took up became a Consulting Detective with New Scotland Yard while John was away. He had followed every development in forensic science throughout the years, making some improvements under aliases himself. It made him aggravated with men like Anderson who he doubted could tell his left from his right if put under any amount of pressure.

Lestrade was different. He was useful for access to crime scenes, yes, but he could also be clever himself at times. It was refreshing to see a capable detective besides himself. Sally Donovan was more intelligent than Anderson, but she could stand to make smarter decisions, especially relating to Anderson.

Sherlock was at a crime scene when a man in military uniform asked to see him. Lestrade and the other officers looked at him curiously and remained in ear shot.

Sherlock, whose mind had been solely focused on the puzzle at hand, snapped to attention.

"Excuse me, are you John Watson's husband?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, and it was true. Although their relationship wasn't of a romantic nature, they had the other listed as their spouse so as to make things like hospital stays and taxes easier. Besides, they were the closest either would get to a lasting relationship.

"I'm sorry to inform you, sir, but Captain Watson was shot while on duty," he said with a grave face. Sherlock paled, despite knowing this was not the first time either of them had been severely injured.

"Is he okay?" he snapped.

"It was a shot to the shoulder, and he had to be operated on. He is being medically discharged, however." The soldier had a stony expression, as was necessary with the news he often had to deliver.

"Do you have the number of the hospital he is staying in?" Sherlock asked. The soldier gave him a sheet of paper with the name of the hospital and the direct line to his room. He left after that, and Sherlock went over to Lestrade.

"My phone is dead. May I use yours?"

"Why?"

"I need to make a call."

"You prefer to text," Lestrade eyed him curiously. "Who is Captain Watson?"

"My partner," Sherlock snapped. "Legally, he's my husband, but we don't really take fondly to those terms. Now may I use your phone?" Sherlock, despite all the years he had been alive, still had no more patience than when he was living through his first two decades.

"You have a husband? Who would marry you?" Sally scoffed.

"John, evidently," Sherlock glared. "John, who was in Afghanistan, and has been shot. So if I could use someone's mobile phone, that would be lovely!"

Lestrade seemed to remember himself and gave the device over. Sherlock quickly punched in the numbers and listened as it rang a few times.

"Hello," came the voice of someone obviously just woken up.

"John." Sherlock closed his eyes, savoring his voice. He hadn't heard from him in months, and the truth was that he missed his best friend terribly. His voice was something that he had become attached to in the 800 years they had been together. He closed his eyes to revel in it.

"Sherlock," John said, sounding as if he were doing the same thing on the other end of the phone. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I was investigating a double homicide. However, a soldier just came to tell me you had been shot. So now I am seeing just what the hell you are doing getting injured while Scotland Yard stares on," he gave the team a look. Most had the good sense to look somewhat ashamed and attempt to not pay attention.

"Double homicide...any ideas?" John asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"You're not going to distract me, John. What happened?" Sherlock said, voice low. His tone was much more caring than he used with anyone else.

"I got shot in the shoulder while taking care of one of the fallen men. He was twenty-three, Sherlock," John sighed. Sherlock could practically see him rubbing his hand over his eyes.

"Did you save him?"

"I did. Barely. But I managed it before the sniper got me."

"Good," Sherlock gave a soft smile. "I'm...proud of you."

"Thank you," John's voice warmed. "Well, looks like I'm coming home. What do you say, do you have any need for a broken army doctor while you fight serial killers and clean up London's streets?"

"I'd be lost without my soldier," Sherlock said truthfully, but his voice was edged with humour. 

"Then I'll see you in about a week. Take care of that double homicide for me." Sherlock's smile grew wide and he could practically feel John's on the other end of the line. 

"It'll be your welcome home present."

"Be careful."

"I told you that and you got shot!"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John." He hung up the phone, still grinning. He looked up to see Lestrade staring at him. "Don't you have a murder to investigate?"


	2. Nightmares and Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The screaming always disconcerted Sherlock.

Sherlock met John at the airport. The detective was using his height to peer over as many bodies as he could, but his height wasn't quite as impressive as it was back when he and John met. It wasn't uncommon for men to reach six feet any longer. However, he still saw John when there was a break in the crowd.

He looked tired. The bags under his eyes were more prominent and the lines deeper. Still, Sherlock found that the steady handsomeness that lasted throughout every evolution of the social definition of beauty was still there. The deep blue eyes were still sharp. They found him through the crowd.

They walked quickly to each other. They locked eyes, just taking in the changes in the other's appearance for a minute before they found their foreheads touching. They both took a deep breath in as they took comfort in each other's presence. It meant being safe and secure after so long. 

"So this is John!"

Sherlock whipped around, surprised to see Lestrade and a few other officers in a group.

"Did you honestly follow me?" Sherlock scoffed. 

"We had to see who you would marry! It's not as if you've shown any great interest in the average population," Lestrade smirked, the group all trying to look over John. Sherlock stepped in front of him so as to shield them from their judgmental eyes.

"John is hardly the average population!" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Sherlock!" John raised his voice, using that force of command he got from so many years of climbing different military ranks. Sherlock turned around while the police group got silent. "Care to introduce me to your stalkers?"

"John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, his Sergeant, Sally Donovan, and I frankly don't know the names of the rest of his team...except Anderson. But he has so few brain cells he doesn't count."

"Hey!"

John just gave Sherlock a fondly exasperated look.

"Hello, Dr. John Watson, former Captain in Her Majesty's Royal Army," he gave a general wave. "Now I get the curiosity, but you couldn't even give us ten minutes? I haven't seen him in three years, you know." John had a way of emotionally manipulating people that even Sherlock had to admire. Sherlock nearly giggled as he realized exactly what John was doing.

"Who wants to spend ten minutes with the freak?" Sally muttered. Lestrade turned around to call her off, when John piped up.

"Freak? I suppose being the best damned detective that's ever existed makes him a freak, huh?" John narrowed his eyes. "Saving lives on a regular basis when NSY fails doesn't count for much, does it?” Sally stared at him, dumbfounded. “I am sure Sherlock just rolls his eyes when you call him that because he genuinely doesn’t care, but I do. I have pledged to spend eternity with this man, and it isn’t because he is some freak. He’s a genius, sometimes a mad genius, but he is a gift to humanity. Don’t act like you’re so much better than him.”

“Well,” Lestrade cleared his throat. “You certainly didn’t marry a pushover.”

“Obviously, that would be boring. And John is the opposite of boring,” Sherlock’s chest seemed to puff with pride.

“Now how did that case go from this week?” John asked.

“Oh, terribly easy- it was the gardener, obviously.”

John smiled. “Obviously.” He looked at the group of people. “May we go now?”

“Um, yeah,” Lestrade nodded. Sherlock walked forward and John followed to the right, just a step behind him. He felt things click into place, and he was home.

 

The screaming echoed through the flat. Sherlock was in the kitchen working on an experiment related to decomposition rates when he heard the pained sounds coming from upstairs. He stood, thinking something was wrong before realizing what must be going on. Every time John returned from war, he dealt with the nightmares. Sometimes they lasted a week and made him yell orders, but those were the less violent ones. When he was injured, they became worse and lasted longer. Considering he had been shot after years of exposure, these were bound to be the bad kind. The screaming always disconcerted Sherlock, though.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do. If the dreams were mild, he played the violin and that tended to calm John down. By the time they progressed point, though, the music did nothing. So Sherlock headed upstairs.

John was thrashing in his bed, there were pillows on the floor, and the lamp was knocked to the side, staying on the table only because of its short chord. Sherlock fixed that first, before pausing by the side of the bed. 

“John,” he said loudly. His friend only thrashed harder, whimpering. “John, they’re just nightmares. You need to wake up.” 

John had tears running down his face.

“Wake up!” Sherlock yelled, panicking. It hadn’t been this bad in a long time. Finally, Sherlock tried to pin John down so he could try to reason with him when he wasn’t fighting imagined enemies.

John reacted by lashing out at him. He planted a few good punches while Sherlock worked on getting his legs pinned by his. His arms were harder, but he eventually got a good point of leverage. Sherlock had to focus on putting his weight on key pressure areas to keep John from moving.

“John,” Sherlock murmured. “John, it’s just a dream. You can wake up.”

The man still whimpered beneath him. Sherlock was often told he didn’t have a heart, but he knew he had to have one, because he could feel it breaking.

“I’ve got you,” he stopped holding John down and instead just held him. He laid on him fully, arms going under John’s and clinging. He rubbed his nose up and down John’s cheek, disrupting the tear tracks. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re safe, I have you…”  
John gasped. “Sher-Sherlock?”

“John!” Sherlock lifted his head to look at him. “You were screaming and then you wouldn’t wake up when I kept my distance and I had to stop it.”

“Sherlock, you’re bleeding,” John said, concerned. “I hit you, didn’t I?”

“It’s fine, I’m already healing,” Sherlock said flippantly. John’s hand came up to caress Sherlock’s bottom lip. True to word, there was blood where it had been busted, but the skin was perfect underneath it.

“I’m sorry,” John apologized.

“No need for that; I knew what I was doing,” Sherlock sniffed. He looked down at his best friend and found he was much too comfortable to consider moving. “This isn’t the first time you’ve come back from war. At least you don’t have the limp like after the Crusades and the French Revolution.”

“No, you cured me of it a couple times,” John gave a small smile, not making any effort to move the man above him. “And I’m very grateful.”

“You know I’d do most anything for you, John.”

“I know,” John said. His hand traveled to the back of Sherlock’s head, massaging. The detective let his head fall forward, surrendering himself to the caring touch. He didn’t mean to rest his forehead against John’s, but he did. Still, he was surprised when John’s lips touched his. 

Sherlock froze initially, causing John to stop and pull away. Sherlock wasn’t rejecting him, however; he was taking in the data. Was this a new step in their relationship? Were they to now begin a romantic involvement? Was he supposed to have known? How long had John felt this way? Was it all because of stress? Or did stress just cause him to act on it? Why was John pulling away? And why did he miss the tender touch?

Sherlock found John’s mouth in the dark. John gasped a little in surprise.

“Is this okay?” he asked Sherlock quietly.

“I...have no opposition to this current development,” Sherlock breathed. He could feel John smile against his lips. Then they were kissing again. It was slow, exploratory, and frankly, a long-time coming. Sherlock got curious about something after a moment, and tasted John’s lower lip with his tongue. John made a low moaning sound before returning the favor, and then the kiss deepened and became more impassioned.

John worked on removing Sherlock’s shirt, and tossed it off the side of the bed, running his hands up and down his sides causing goosebumps to rise across Sherlock’s skin.

“We aren’t moving too quickly?” he asked the dark-haired man as Sherlock reached over to turn on the lamp so he could look down at John.

“John,we have known each other since the thirteenth century. We have killed for one another and been injured for one another. We are legally married. So do I think deciding to engage in physical pleasure, and probably experiencing mutual orgasms with one another in the twenty-first century, is moving too quickly? No, I can’t say I do.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“That shouldn’t have sounded sexy,” John shook his head.

“What?”

“You saying mutual orgasms,” John smirked.

“John,” Sherlock chuckled. “I’ve said it before.”

“Not with you half-naked and straddling me. Go on, humour me.”

“Fine, I would like to experience mutual orgasms with you,” Sherlock made sure to make his voice as deep as possible, turning it into a purr. 

“Jesus,” John’s breath left him in a puff of air. “Yes, God yes.”

The next morning, John woke up with Sherlock curled possessively around him, feeling a bit like he had had a serious work out the night before. He turned over so he was facing Sherlock’s chest and buried his nose in his neck, breathing in the scent there. He tightened his own hold on the man while his nose continued to nuzzle his neck.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock groaned. “That tickles.”

“Really?” John grinned and proceeded to continue his actions but with more purpose.

“John, stop it!” Sherlock giggled, then immediately went silent as he fought the noises coming out of his mouth.

“Oh, don’t you dare! That was precious!”

“I am not precious! I am a genius who is quite capable of controlling my body’s resp-EEEE! JOHN!”

John finally fell back, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. 

“You aren’t amusing!” Sherlock glared.

“Aww, don’t be upset,” John turned back to him, kissing Sherlock to distract him. He leaned over him, deepening the kiss when the doorbell rang through the flat. 

“It’s Lestrade, leave it,” Sherlock held him closer.

“Mmm, I made a bad impression. I have go down and let him in, try to repair my reputation. I’m usually much nicer than that.” John stood, throwing on a pair of pajama bottoms.

“No, you’re evil. You’re leaving me here alone after you got me hot and bothered. You are supposed to take care of things like that. You’re my husband. Isn’t that in your job description?” Sherlock complained, arm thrown above his head dramatically.

“Put on clothes before you go downstairs.” John shook his head, taking the stairs down to the door two at a time. He pulled it open, and sure enough, there was Lestrade. 

“Oh, hello, John,” Lestrade smiled, taking in his appearance- no shirt, sex-crazed hair, flushed cheeks. “Bad time?”

“No, you’re fine. Come on in,” John smiled. Lestrade followed him in, going up to the living room. “Care for a cuppa?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” Lestrade said, watching as he put the kettle on. “So, is Sherlock here?”

“He’s in the bedroom,” John said. “He was quite content to leave you on the doorstep.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Well thank you for not allowing that to happen.”

“I’m not always the bastard I was yesterday,” John explained. “It was just...a highly stressful time, with a poorly timed insult. I’m not usually a cave man.”

“I could understand. I’m actually here to apologize for Sally’s behaviour.” Lestrade cleared his throat.

“And you’re curious,” John said, leaning back up against the counter. Lestrade looked at him, eyes a bit wide. “Oh, don’t worry, I don’t blame you. But it’s true, you wanted to see what kind of man would marry someone like Sherlock, and how different a genius like him must be in private.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?” Lestrade asked.

“No, I miss plenty. It just happens that, whereas crime scenes and chemistry labs and mortuaries are Sherlock’s area, people are mine. That’s why we work so well together. Besides, after one spends so long in the company of Sherlock Holmes, one picks up on certain things.” 

“How long is so long?” Lestrade asked.

“Forever,” John laughed. Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, fine- years and years. I’ve known him nearly as long as we’ve been alive, and we’ve always got on.”

“Wow,” Lestrade said, eyes wide.

“Yeah, we- SHERLOCK, DAMMIT I SAID CLOTHES!” John yelled, smacking his forehead.

Sherlock had wandered in, wrapped in the sheet they had used the night before. It looked and smelled quite obviously of sex, and it was not the impression John wanted to present so shortly after meeting someone. 

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Lestrade tried to hide his grin behind his hand.

“Well, it would have been, if someone had not so rudely interrupted,” Sherlock yawned, walking over to John. He rested his chin on the blonde’s head, closing his eyes and just resting there. 

“Hello, I told you to put on clothes,” John murmured.

“Since when have I done what I was told?” Sherlock asked, his voice causing John’s head to vibrate slightly due to its proximity to Sherlock’s neck. John grinned, reaching a hand around to pat Sherlock on the bum. 

“Come on, kettle’s boiling,” John turned to fix the tea. 

“So, Sherlock, are you happier since John got back?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock opted to give him a look rather than point out the obviousness of the question. “More than you could possibly imagine. It’s good not to worry about him anymore.”

Lestrade was surprised by the honesty of his answer.

“Oh you don’t worry about me after all this time,” John rolled his eyes, handing Sherlock a mug and taking one for himself. “This is hardly the first time I’ve been on the battlefield.”

“And I worry every time,” Sherlock glared. “I accepted long ago that there is a part of you that is a soldier and craves that life every few years, but that in no way makes our time apart easier on me or my nerves.”

John looked at him in shock. For the first time, he saw the pain in Sherlock’s eyes. It was one that was apparently buried for centuries. He didn’t realize how much Sherlock had cared.

“Sherlock, I didn’t-”

“I know you didn’t know. I ensured you didn’t, because being a soldier makes you happy and I will not go out of my way to stop your happiness, despite how every one of his lot views me as a selfish bastard,” he pointed to Lestrade who looked very awkward. “And maybe I am, because your happiness is crucial to my own. That means that I will nurse your wounds and deal with the PTSD and let you go off to be shot at whenever you find yourself bored, but please don’t act like it’s easy for me. Because I barely sleep and barely eat and have to fill my time with ridiculous bloody puzzles so as to keep distracted, especially considering you are so against me inhaling a little nicotine.” Sherlock licked his lip, looking away to calm his emotions after his little rant. 

“Lestrade, could we reschedule this little get-together?” John asked, looking over at him with a tight smile. The Detective Inspector, relieved to get out of the tense situation, nodded and ducked out quickly. “Sherlock, why didn’t you talk to me about this before?”

“Because we weren’t...this,” Sherlock motioned between them.

“Weren’t we?” John asked. “Excluding the more intimate acts, nothing has changed. I love you the same way as I did yesterday; there’s just a new aspect to it. You should have told me.”

“You should have observed. You should have inferred. How would you feel if I ran off into dangerous situations where it’s a guarantee the other people have guns and you weren’t allowed to follow?” Sherlock snapped. “How powerless and miserable would you be?”

John’s eyes were wide and shining. “Oh god, I’m sorry.”

“I...I am not used to these emotional interactions. Am I doing it wrong?” Sherlock asked. “Because you’re apologizing, but I’m the one feeling bad.”

“You act as if I’ve had any lasting romantic attachments,” John shook his head.

“You’ve had more than I have,” Sherlock grumbled.

“None I was so invested in,” John said. “And no, you’re not doing it wrong.” John hugged him. Sherlock dropped the sheet so as to make it easier to hug him back. 

“I hated those women. They didn’t deserve you.” Sherlock huffed.

“I know you did. There’s a reason those relationships didn’t last,” John chuckled. Sherlock rolled his eyes, letting go to sit on the table and sip his tea. “We eat on there.”

“And now I sit on here. Problem?”

“You’re naked.”

“Keen observation.”

“Normal people don’t put their bare arses on the table where we eat,” John said, refusing to giggle like he wanted to.

“Well thank God I’m not normal.”


	3. Who We Once Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’s been so lonely, dear. Up at all times of the night with that violin. Not to mention, getting those drugs busts..."

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock introduced the two. He had asked that she have him and a guest over for dinner, and of course she agreed. 

“It’s so nice to meet one of Sherlock’s friends!” Mrs. Hudson grinned. “Come in, please, come in.”

They were ushered inside 221A, and were handed cups of tea when they sat down.

“Dr. Watson, is it?” she asked.

“Just John, please,” he smiled.

“John,” she smiled. “I am Martha Hudson. I’m the landlady here.”

“So Sherlock was telling me,” John said. “So sorry to hear about your husband, by the way.”

“Oh I’m not,” she said. “He wasn’t the nicest man. Some people don’t understand, but I’m sure that once you get married….”

“Actually, Mrs. Hudson, that’s what I needed to talk to you about,” Sherlock said. She looked up at him. “We’ve known each other for a few years, you and I. When we first met, you remember I said I had to get back to London because someone was waiting for me, yes?”

“I do. I just figured things didn’t work out, dear,” she gave him a understanding expression, patting his hand. Sherlock got an exasperated look on his face.

“No, they did work out, actually. He just happened to be shipped off for war before I met up to get a flat with you.” Sherlock sighed.

“Oh, dear, was he...you know?” She suddenly looked very sorry for him. John was about to have a hemorrhage, holding in his laughter at Sherlock’s facial expression.

“No, Mrs. Hudson, he didn’t die!” Sherlock huffed. “He got a medical discharge after being shot.”

“Oh, well that’s a messy business! When do I get to meet him?” she asked.

“Um, hello,” John said, pressing his lips together to keep from upsetting Sherlock with his amusement. “I’m the husband.”

“Oh my!” Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Goodness me, I wasn’t told! Don’t I feel silly. And here I am babbling about married life…”

“It’s fine,” John smiled. “Anyways, hello, I’m Sherlock’s spouse, and I believe part of the reason we are here is to let you know that I will be moving in.”

“Of course!” She smiled. “It’s so nice that Sherlock has someone. After all, he’s been so lonely, dear. Up at all times of the night with that violin. Not to mention, getting those drugs busts every so often-”

“Drugs busts?” John interrupted. “Why would they think to do drugs busts?” 

“They felt I was withholding evidence,” Sherlock waved his hand flippantly.

“But why would they go for drugs? Sherlock!” John snapped. He held eye contact with him, reading what he could in those caribbean eyes.

“Because it was an excuse and they knew they wouldn’t find any. Trust me.” Sherlock insisted.

“Fine. Sorry.” John shook his head. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Hudson. You were saying?”

“Oh,” she ignored their little spat. “I was just saying that Sherlock doesn’t seem the type to do well being alone. I think 221B was meant for more than one person...Now, will you still need the two bedrooms?”

“Yes, I’ll use one for the more disagreeable experiments,” Sherlock nodded.

“Just like in Venice,” John noted. “You know, when I was supposed to have an office, and you slowly crept in there with your stuff until it turned into your own private laboratory. And I still couldn’t use the kitchen for food!”

“Oh, it’s always that story you bring up! I let you have your office in Rio for awhile, and look at how that turned out! It caught on fire,” Sherlock gave him a look.

“Your fault there too, genius,” John poked Sherlock’s arm. “Not everyone lives checking their desks for explosives hidden by their flat mate’s enemies.”

Mrs. Hudson giggled and clapped her hands together. “Oh, I love this. Young love is always such a whirlwind, isn’t it? But it does sound like you’ve known each other quite awhile.”

“You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,” John smiled.

 

Approx. 1750 AD

“Sherlock, what’s that?” John asked, coming in from a day of calls. He had prescribed what he could for what diseases could be cured. Otherwise, he gave diagnoses and home remedy recommendations. He had come home to find Sherlock smoking something that didn’t smell like tobacco from a pipe.

“Try it, John,” he held it out. 

“I make a point of not trying something that has not been identified to me. Now, what is it you are inhaling?” John resisted the urge to take the potentially dangerous thing out of his friends grasp.

“I would not offer you something that would kill you, John,” Sherlock said, laughing at his own joke. That was when John realized that this substance, whatever it was, obviously affected one’s mind.

“I mean it, Sherlock. What is it?” John was worried, and so he was becoming angry. Unfortunately, he knew it to be a fact that, despite what he might say about Mycroft, often Sherlock’s greatest enemy was himself. 

“Calm down, John! It is opium. Quite popular amongst British and Chinese culture these days.” He inhaled a long drag from the pipe, blowing it out slowly and smoothly as if he were specifically trying to grate on John’s nerves. 

“Opium is a drug, Sherlock,” John sighed. “A mind-altering drug. Why would you, with such a bloody brilliant mind, want to smoke opium?”

“Bored,” Sherlock muttered.

“What?”

“BORED!” Sherlock yelled, then laughed. “Oh God, John, I was so bored. But look at how far civilization has come. In my time, this was thought to be a product of the devil! They would have tortured me again for it, you know. But then, they already saw me as the devil.”

Sherlock was babbling. Sherlock never babbled, and it unnerved John Watson to the core.

“Sherlock, I want you to stop smoking that. It isn’t safe. There’s a reason it’s looked down upon to engage in such habits,” John tried to take the pipe away gently but Sherlock turned away, flailing his arms more dramatically than usual.

“But I’m not bored anymore, John! It’s fucking fantastic!” Sherlock laughed loudly. “Not to mention how happy I am!”

“You aren’t happy. You’re high, and there is a very large difference,” John insisted.

“If there is, I’ll take being high. Being happy is overrated if it doesn’t feel like this,” Sherlock said. “Seriously, John, I am doing you a favor. Me trying to share this with you is the biggest gift I can give you in this friendship.”

“Drugs? You want to give me drugs as a gift of friendship?” John scoffed. “I have spent hundreds of years in your presence, and I honestly cannot believe you right now.”

“‘s not the drugs that I’m tryin’ to give you,” Sherlock mumbled, stumbling and falling before he could reach his seat. “‘s the feeling, John. Euphoria.”

John turned away in disgust. “I’ll take the boredom.”

Sherlock snorted. “That’s because you’re an idiot.”

Despite having had his intelligence insulted before, in this context, John’s feeling were hurt in a way they hadn’t been previously. 

“Fine, then I am an idiot. But I would be a bigger idiot if I stayed.” John went to his room, packed up his luggage, and hopped into a buggy, telling the driver to go to the bank, then he just rode on. 

Sherlock was ignorant to John not having been home for awhile, considering he spent most of his time high. It was when his stash ran out and he was dealing with a terrible headache that he realized John was gone. None of his stuff was in his room.

Sherlock felt entirely blindsided. How could he have been so unaware? He had never been so unobservant that he missed so much going on around him, especially not something so important. 

Sherlock didn’t bother getting more opium after that, instead hunting John’s trail all the way to France. He watched him for awhile at a distance, afraid of being rejected if John really didn’t want to see him again. John had started off doing more doctor work, his French rusty but still useable, and he even seemed to be making friends. Sherlock wasn’t too surprised; John was a friendly person, nice and supportive. But he had hoped that maybe he was missing Sherlock as much as he was missing John.

The only thing that Sherlock noticed that was different was John visiting the taverns more often. One night, Sherlock had had enough and went to see him. He hadn’t been there long, still had his first mug of wine in front of him, so he was sober. He looked up, saw Sherlock, and took in his appearance. Sherlock was sober, had been for weeks, and John could tell. He motioned to the seat next to him, then ordered another drink from the bar. Sherlock sat down, feeling relieved.

“No more opium,” he promised.

“No more,” John said, and that was the end of that conversation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a crime scene, a dominatrix, a Napoleon, and a peacock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for leaving kudos! That and comments are always welcome. Gets the creative juices flowing...

John had been back two weeks when Sherlock took a case with NSY. They took a cab to the crime scene, and Sally was waiting by the police tape.

“He brought you here with him?” she scoffed.

“Believe it or not, I enjoy being with my husband,” John said stoically. He didn’t want to lose his temper again, so rather than stay and bicker, he followed Sherlock under the police tape to the body.

“The cleaning lady found the body, says that her employer is out of town on business,” Lestrade explained.

It was a young blonde woman. She was on the ground, bullet hole in the center of the forehead. 

“Shot through the window, sniper, expert shot- this was long distance through glass. He couldn’t have faltered. I’d go so far as to say he was former military, hired with her as the target. She’s co-owner of the home, or at least the owner’s lover. Obvious by the state of dress and jewelry she wears. Well-kept so she was happy with the relationship...maybe her partner isn’t,” Sherlock rattled off. “Then again, statistically less likely, considering her lover is a woman. So what motivated someone to hire someone to kill her?”

“The victim is-” Lestrade started.

“The victim has a name,” a voice interrupted. “Her name is Kate.”

The three men turned around to see the woman that had walked in. She was beautiful, with dark brown hair and alabaster skin. She wore a black coat over a tasteful white dress. Every piece of jewelry was classy and tasteful. Her lips, painted red, were twisted unhappily, but her eyes took in the body without flinching away.

“Who are you?” Lestrade asked, knowing she must be important if Sally let her past the tape.

“I’m the owner of the house. My name is Irene Adler.”

 

“Mr. Holmes,” Irene said, “do you know why I seeked you out in private?” 

The woman had appeared in 221B. Sherlock had turned around from his experiment to the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs that his subconscious read at Not John. He stood to find Irene Adler walk in the room as if she owned it. He was a bit surprised as the day before, not only could he not get a solid deduction about her, but also because she refused to give any helpful details to the police.

Now, she sat on the couch, and Sherlock paced in front of her. 

“No,” he said, and he tried to hide his frustration at this fact.

“Well, let me enlighten you,” she said, leaning forward intently. “I have a job, and my job is important to me. Unfortunately, it isn’t one the police would look fondly on. And considering that my job is very likely the reason my girlfriend was killed, I decided to go to the person I knew had no moral qualms.”  
Sherlock watched her closely. Her blue-green eyes were sharp, taking in his reaction. His face was carefully blank, though. 

“What would your job be?”

“I’m a dominatrix,” she said smoothly. Sherlock, who had dealt with a case in a sex club a year back, smiled.

“Suits your personality,” he said. She looked mildly shocked.

“I heard you were a virgin,” she said. 

“I am married, you know,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Ahh but you were never seen with anyone. No one was ever at home. All communication could be linked back to your detective work….or your little science experiments. You were for all intents viewed as asexual, flirting only for cases,” she gave him a seductive look.

“Flirting? Flirting with whom?”

The voice was gentle, teasing. John had been visiting with Mrs. Hudson, and he had listened at the bottom of the stairs after hearing the visitor come in. Sherlock could remember another handful of occasions where John had spied, sometimes with Sherlock being aware, other times without. Both times, when he had been invested, he had been quite proficient in keeping himself hidden from the opposition. 

“Oh, various different people- typically suspects, some murderers, a few thieves, and some unsuspecting bystanders here and there. Whatever was necessary for the work…” Sherlock only glanced in John’s direction, but the gaze was fond. However, the soldier knew what it meant when Sherlock appeared so casual in front of a person; John was on alert.

“I notice I am not on that list. I suppose it’s because you never flirt with me,” John pretended to grumble, setting the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had sent up on the table before walking back in the room.

“I flirt with you all the time,” Sherlock defended himself.

“Oh, when? Is it when I’m not there to hear it?” John asked.

“No, you hear it,” Sherlock said. “You typically respond by telling me to stop showing off.”

John grinned. “Yes, I married a peacock of a man. Good to see you again, Ms. Adler.”

“Ms. Adler, this would be my husband, John,” Sherlock gave a tight smile. 

“The one he does, in fact, have sex with,” John smirked. “And quite good sex, if I do say so myself.”

“My, my, Mr. Holmes, you and I are more alike than it initially appeared,” Irene said, standing. “I kept Kate as my assistant as well.”

“I am not a dom, therefore John is not my assistant,” Sherlock’s gaze got hard. “He’s my partner.”

“Not a dom...no,” she shook her head, “I’ve got a feeling you could be though. Hands and callouses like that? You’re familiar with riding crops. You’ve certainly got the muscle tone that says you don’t hold back with them either. My bet is that you just aren’t using them properly.”

Sherlock was caught off guard.

“What I need your help with, Mr. Holmes, is finding someone. I need you to find someone, and then tell me how to get rid of him. See, I collect insurance in my job. Bits of information here and there that ensure that I get protection when I need it. Unfortunately, a client of mine gave me some information on someone that didn’t want to be vulnerable. And then he sent out a hit to get my attention. He wanted to be sure I got the message, so he killed my lover. Now, I’m angry. And I am looking for help.” Irene had a hard set to her face that proved she was no longer playing her dominatrix game. Instead, she was a warrior like out of some Amazonian tribe. It was interesting.

“Who am I looking for?” Sherlock asked.

“His name is Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “John, please get the door for Ms. Adler.”

John did as he asked, looking curiously at Sherlock all the while. 

“Okay,” he began when Irene had gone. “We’ve met a woman who has ridiculous amounts of information on you, can deduce you, and apparently knows about someone you know about who you’ve not told me about. So, what do we do?” 

“We keep in touch. And I suppose I should tell you...The man she has been in contact with, the man who targeted her, he’s the Napoleon of blackmail,” Sherlock sat in his chair, looking concerned but excited.

“What do you mean?” John asked, sitting across from him in his own chair. The chair had come with him from several years before, and he could never get over how perfect a fit it was.

“What I mean is that Magnussen. Magnussen is like a shark – it’s the only way I can describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, John – stood up close to the glass? Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes ... That’s what he is. I’ve dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen.

“That’s a bit concerning,” John’s eyebrows drew together. “So, if this guy is as bad as you say, why are we getting involved?”

Sherlock looked over at him in shock. “Magnussen has people under his thumb, John. Isn’t it the right thing to do, to help?”

“Well, if he has so much stuff on people, wouldn’t it be Mycroft who steps in? He usually handles these people. You hate blackmail, afterall. You and I stomach the serial killers, and Mycroft sticks with the sick fucks who play head games. It’s been this way for centuries.”

“The fact that you don’t classify serial killers under the category of ‘Sick Fucks’says something about how you think, John,” Sherlock commented, hands holding both edges of the arm rests. “Besides, Mycroft’s hands are tied here.”

John’s eyes grew wide. “Are you saying-”

“-that Magnussen has something on my brother and on those working around him? Yes, I am. So I am not only doing this because it is interesting, I am also helping out my brother and the British Government.”

“I think that statement was a bit redundant,” John teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, John…”

“Oh shut up, you know I’m clever,” John threw his head back.

“Ish…” Sherlock said. John gave him a weak smile. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, considering.

“What are you doing?” John asked. 

Sherlock was behind his chair, tilting John’s head forward. John let him, and he was rewarded accordingly. Sherlock’s hands were rubbing in circles, knuckles alternately kneading the knots in his muscles. 

“I,” Sherlock said, hands continuing their activity; he leaned forward, lips brushing John’s ear. “am massaging my very tense war hero.” He pressed a firm kiss to the space under his ear. John bit his lip, repressing any reactions. “John, don’t hide yourself from me.”

“You...you aren’t a romantic,” John gasped as Sherlock’s hands worked down, undoing the top buttons on John’s shirt. “You do the brain work, and I try to woo you and...wait a minute...are you flirting with me?” John looked up to see that gorgeous neck. Sherlock chuckled, fingers teasingly light over John’s nipples. 

Sherlock looked down at him through dark ashes, smiling a dangerous smile. “Well,” he said seductively, “is it working?”

“Most definitely,” John grabbed the back of his partner’s neck, pressing their lips together. “My lovely peacock.”

“I am not a peacock,” Sherlock growled.

“Mmm prancing about in that tight purple shirt, those ridiculous black pants, artfully messing your hair, throwing yourself around while being the cleverest person in the room so loudly….it’s just like you are showing off your colors for me, like I’m a mate you’re trying to secure,” John giggled.

“Are you calling yourself a peahen?” Sherlock scoffed. Before John could answer, Sherlock had him out of his chair and pressed to the wall, his back to Sherlock. The detective laid his form flat against his husband’s. He moved his hips, rubbing his erection across John’s rear end. “And as far as mates...I’m quite sure I have secured one.”

That was the last intelligible conversation to be had for awhile.


	5. Mad as a Hatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has trust issues, and Mycroft cares...but doesn't want anyone to know.

"Care to enlighten me as to what you're doing?" 

Mycroft's voice cut through Sherlock's slumber. He opened his eyes, taking in the top of John's head from where it was resting on his chest, and turned to see his brother giving him a stern look from his doorway. 

John's breathing patterns had increased, indicating he was awake. It wasn't surprising, as he was only recently home from Afghanistan, and he was sleeping in a stressful environment constantly there, always on alert. The slightest of noises could wake him up anymore, so a voice was as good as an alarm.

"I was sleeping," Sherlock glared.

"Let me rephrase: what are you doing involved with Irene Adler?" Mycroft demanded.

"Why is it any of your business?" Sherlock snapped.

"She-"

"I swear to God I'm going to shoot somebody," John growled. Sherlock looked down, and Mycroft shifted his gaze to the tense body on the bed. "I had a wonderful night of not sleeping, and I desired to have a wonderful morning of catching up on said lost sleep, and it is being ruined by this sibling argument shit. We are going to move it out of this bedroom, and we are going to wait to discuss it until I have some bloody caffeine in my system, or someone is going to end up with a bullet in them."

Sherlock was captivated by the authority in John's voice, and his position on top of Sherlock allowed the doctor to be aware of just how interested his tone of voice made his husband.

John looked up at Sherlock, his deep blue eyes both angry and disbelieving, but there was a heat in there that had nothing to do with being upset.

"I was under the impression you weren't supposed to be in possession of any firearms," Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

"I was under the impression you weren't supposed to be an idiot," John glared. Sherlock paused, not used to John being so angry with Mycroft. Apparently, Mycroft was as taken by surprise. He gaped at John.

John rolled his eyes, standing up and walking to the wardrobe despite his being completely bare. Sherlock sat up, missing the warmth and weight John had. He piled the blanket on his lap. 

"Mycroft, we'll meet you in the livingroom," Sherlock said, meeting his brother's eye. He knew it was obvious he was as confused at his husband's behaviour as his brother was. Mycroft nodded, walking out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Sherlock went over to where John had put his clothes on and now leaned his head up against the wardrobe's door. He placed a hand on John's shoulder, pulling back when John tensed.

"Not now, Sherlock," John sighed.

"We need to talk about this," Sherlock said. 

"No, no we really don't."

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. He put on clothes quickly, going out into the living room to talk with his brother.

"Is all not well in paradise?" Mycroft asked.

"Shut up," Sherlock growled. Mycroft's expression tensed.

"Does he need help? I am able to acquire-"

"We don't need your meddling, Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled. "Now talk about what you came to talk about, then leave."

"Fine, back away from the Irene Adler case," Mycroft looked down his nose at his brother.

"Ummm NO."

"It's more involved than you could imagine," Mycroft warned.

"Irene's lover was killed because of Charles Augustus Magnussen. That means that Irene has information that could bring Magnussen down, freeing plenty of people," Sherlock gave him a level gaze. Mycroft glowered.

"Back off of Magnussen. Or else consider yourself going against me."

"This is as much for you as it is for me," Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft scoffed.

"Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"Frankly, I find it pathetic that you haven't found a way to get out from under his control yet," Sherlock huffed. "But such is the weakness a position like yours supplies."

"I have one weakness in this world," Mycroft hissed. "And Magnussen managed to find it. I refuse to let him manipulate it."

"I'll protect Sherlock," John interrupted. The brothers looked over to see the soldier in his beige jumper. His hair was a mess, and there were dark circles under his eyes. "It's my job, and I've done a fairly decent job of it over the years. I assure you I can continue to do it."

"How-" Mycroft started.

"It's not that difficult to figure out if you have a small amount of brain cells and any knowledge of you," John stated. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not the biggest idiot in the world."

"I never said you were," Mycroft said quietly.

"I'm heading out. I'll grab a pint with Lestrade or something," John told Sherlock. 

"What time will you be back?" he asked.

"I don't know," John snapped. However, he took a deep breath, walking over and kissing him. "I love you," he said much more gently.

"I love you too," Sherlock said, touching their foreheads together briefly. "If you need anything, I'm here."

 

John did as he said, meeting up with Lestrade. They exchanged a few pleasantries before taking seats.

“So what’s going on?” Greg asked.

“Oh, I just needed to get out of the house,” John sighed.

“Ahh,” Greg said. “Is Sherlock in a fit?”

“No, not really...I was the one acting like a tit this time,” John explained, taking a long swig of his drink.

“I just figured he would be upset, what with his being unable to work on the case anymore,” Greg shrugged.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the case has been taken over by MI6. Apparently it was a bit more serious than we had originally thought,” Lestrade shook his head. “So Sherlock will not be able to figure it out, which always bothers him.”

“Oh, Sherlock is still working on the case,” John chuckled. “He has high government clearance.”

“Are you serious?” Lestrade scoffed.

“Do you honestly think Scotland Yard is the first people he worked with?” John cocked an eyebrow. “Sherlock’s been taking cases for the government for years. He has to be bored enough, or the cases have to be interesting enough… But it DOES happen.”

“I didn’t realize he got around so much,” Lestrade said. 

“Sherlock is very good at what he does. I was never surprised people noticed.”

“If Sally heard about this…” Lestrade trailed off.

“She can’t know,” John insisted. “No one can. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

Lestrade looked confused. “Then why did you?”

“Because you actually respect Sherlock’s abilities,” John said. “When I first met him, people tormented him for his gifts...I got him out of that situation and it took years for me to convince him he was special, that he was worth so much more than they said. And it took so long, but he got it eventually. He still has some issues with it sometimes, and I try to avoid anything or anyone that makes him feel that way. It’s why I was so upset with Donovan. I had never met her before, and already she thought I, a man she had never met, was so much better than him. You all haven’t seen him the way I have. He can be a total dick, but he is also one of the kindest, most soft-hearted individuals I have ever had the good fortune of meeting...I mean, he actually tried to talk to me about what was wrong today, and I just blew him off. So who’s really the dick?” John put his head in his hands. Lestrade reached out to touch his shoulder.

 

“I think we all can be dicks, but you can make it better you know?” He said gently. “What is the matter, anyway?”

“I...have you ever been responsible for taking a man’s life?” John asked quietly. Lestrade looked surprised, then distracted, then guilty.

“Yes, a serial rapist and murderer. It was a kill-or-be-killed scenario. It still fucks with my head, to this day,” he said softly.

“Imagine that over and over again, only you don’t know these men. And they can be young, or old, innocent or guilty, but you don’t know. You just shoot. And then add in the men on your own side that you can’t save, despite being a doctor, and their only hope, and there’s just no way for you to, and the look in their eyes when they realize what’s going to happen to them...And this isn’t the first war I’ve been in. It’s horrible. And every time I sleep I see it over and over and over again. It’s like I’m back there…” John stopped, looking shocked, before he started laughing.

“What in the hell are you laughing at?” Lestrade asked, eyes wide, still thinking about John’s story.

“I’m required to see a therapist because of my medical discharge, and she’s been talking about my trust issues lately, and here I am spilling my guts to someone I barely know,” John chuckled. “Oh Ella will be so proud.”

“You’re mad,” Lestrade huffed. “I see why Sherlock likes you so much.”

“I’m a hell of a lot madder than he is,” John grinned, “and I guess I’ll tell him that when I get home.”

He and Lestrade touched their glasses together before continuing on with the match on the television.


End file.
